Rydel worked on one of his laptops inside his off-hours quarters at the Genesis lab, the computer's screen providing the only light inside the room at the late hour. It was almost midnight. He went over his notes, along with statements taken from two high-ranking military officers afflicted with PTSD. After counseling and other medications had come up short, the two men had volunteered to test a new injectable drug developed at Genesis, and they remained symptom-free for what was now nine months. The one-time injection did not eradicate the memories of what had happened during their tours of duty, but the images and thoughts of war no longer continually raged inside each man's mind anymore and were manageable if they did surface. No more dependency on pills like Zoloft and Prazosin when the images of warfare flared up because you forgot to take your meds. The two men now fully functional in society and with loved ones.
Pounding inside his room—loud.
Rydel let out a startled gasp. He rushed to the door to his room, unlocked it, and began to open it slowly. John Adams stood in the doorway. He had a look on his face Rydel had never seen before—the man was worried.
"What's wrong?"
"A malfunction of some kind with Shutdown. We need to get to Afghanistan right now."
"What went wrong—"
"Now, Rydel, let's go. We are on a plane in five minutes."
Rydel looked around his room. "Okay, okay. Do I need to pack supplies for—"
John Adams took three steps closer to Rydel, grabbed him, and pushed Rydel out the door.
"We're leaving, Rydel!"